


Getting To The Church On Time

by My_Good_Omens_Hackverse



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley is REALLY sorry he told Aziraphale he didn’t need him, Crowley rushing to save Aziraphale, London during the Blitz, WWII, buildup to the Nazi / church scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25683334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Good_Omens_Hackverse/pseuds/My_Good_Omens_Hackverse
Summary: A scene just before Crowley’s epic entrance at the church during the Blitz.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 9





	Getting To The Church On Time

London, 1941

Crowley took a running leap at the Bentley which caught him expertly, and they drove off.

Neither had been awake two minutes ago. It was Crowley‘s habit to sleep naked (he had never seen the point of pajamas), but it took less than a second to miracle a perfectly tailored black suit around his lean frame as he bolted out of bed. He tripped noisily through a minefield of ugly, lumpy statuettes littering the hallway. They smoldered and sparked as he kicked them out of the way. There wasn’t time to wonder why the condemnations for demonic job performance were there, but he did notice that there were rather a lot of them. He grabbed at the hat that materialized next to his head, and launched himself out the door.

Outside Crowley skidded to a halt. Sirens wailed, a plane roared through the night sky, and somewhere something very large exploded, making him flinch. The ruined street was deserted. Was he… home? A wave of panic hit him squarely in the chest and he staggered backwards. ‘No!’ he thought. ‘Impossible! How…?’ But the hellscape outside his door was London – his other home. He had been asleep for most of the last 79 years, and his infrequent outings had only left an unpleasant stain on his consciousness, like fever dreams. All of them together were a badly tangled jumble of half-formed memories. “World” wars; new and horrible weapons; someone named Anthony; and on and on. Bits and pieces of pieces that may or may not have belonged to the same puzzle would sometimes float to the front of his tortured mind. None of it had meant anything to him. Now, though, it all came back to him at once in one awful deluge of vivid memory. ‘War has outdone herself,’ he thought distractedly. ‘This might explain those service awards.’

Still, none of it mattered.

He tried to concentrate on driving, but the nightmare that had plagued his sleep stuck to him stubbornly, like tar. For almost 100 years Crowley had relived the same moment; snarling at Aziraphale over and over “I don’t need you,” as Aziraphale turned away and stormed off. “I don’t need you.” Crowley had never told a worse, more corrosive lie. It would never be true. To even think such a thing (much less say it) made the air around him shimmer, as if reality was dissolving. But the angel had hurt him, and he had thrown back at Aziraphale the most hurtful thing he could think of. Crowley had stood there by himself at the pond’s edge that day until long after dark, his last words to Aziraphale echoing cruelly in his head. It became an awful mantra that would not be silenced. He tried alcohol, the company of humans (he noticed they seemed to occupy Aziraphale’s time quite adequately, thank you very much), even focusing on work. Nothing helped. He had been sure he could escape into sleep, but he couldn’t stop saying those cursed words in his dreams, either, and once asleep he found he couldn’t fully wake up. The idea that their friendship was over - worse, that Aziraphale may never have really thought of them as friends – was, well, ‘It’s not an idea, it’s an abomination,’ thought Crowley. An abomination worse than any beast in Hell, and when it caught him (as it did, night after night) it ripped his soul apart and ground it down, leaving nothing behind where hope might someday take root. It never occurred to him to try to make amends, so complete was his despair. It had been like Falling all over again.

Now, everything was racing: his mind, his heart, and him in the Bentley. He realized Aziraphale must be in trouble. Aziraphale needed him. ‘That must be why I’m awake,’ he thought. (Or maybe it was Crowley who was in trouble and needed Aziraphale. Or maybe they needed each other. Difficult to say. Sometimes the dividing lines become blurry.) Crowley tried not to remember all the times through the ages when Aziraphale was happy to see him. Those moments were easily some of the best of his existence. What would Aziraphale’s reaction be now? But there wasn’t time for doubt. Crowley only hoped whatever he was about to do wouldn’t make things worse.

He sped toward the... where was he? Crowley shoved the car door open and landed on the curb before the Bentley could come to a proper stop. He strode toward the door of the - ‘Ah, of course, why wouldn’t it be a church,’ thought Crowley. He wasn’t too late, though - Aziraphale’s presence sang softly to every part of him, drawing him onward. Crowley knew the amount of physical pain that was waiting for him, but he didn’t pause or even slow his step. After all, nothing could compare to the torment he’d endured for the last 79 years. Aziraphale was on the other side of the door. Even if the angel wouldn’t forgive him, Crowley would walk forever on consecrated ground just to hand him a cup of tea. 

He fairly yanked the door off its hinges and charged inside.


End file.
